Whispers in the Dark
by LittleLongHairedOutlaw
Summary: A series of one-shots centering around the vampires of Baker Street and their friends.
1. Literary Explorations

**A/N: This series of one-shots is the result of the decision of mine to expand on the universe presented in three other fics of mine - _The Change_ , _Late Nights in Baker Street_ , and _Surrender it All_. For context to this opening one-shot, I suggest reading _The Change_. There is no need to read the other two at present unless you want to.**

* * *

Those first days after becoming a vampire are exhausting ones for Sherlock. Though the change has been a success and a new life of vampirism lies before him, his body is still recovering from the ordeal at the swimming pool. The bullet wound in his leg and the other in his chest both ache if he moves too much, and John is careful about cautioning against such an action anyway. Anything Sherlock wants, John says, he would supply. Blood, company and boredom alleviation as well as therapeutic massages all included.

Sherlock's request, however, is one which catches John by surprise.

"Bring me my laptop. I wish to research the popular culture opinion of our kind."

John can tell him all that he wants to know, but such a thing would be a waste of time. Sherlock feels it essential that he carries out the research himself.

Laptop in hand, Amazon is consulted and several novels deemed best sellers are purchased to arrive the next day. _Dracula_ is not amongst them, Sherlock having read that some years ago and not deeming the films worth his time, though John points out that at times the films are very different and people tend to base their assumptions off them more than the novel. Still, the misconceptions propagated by that book are overwhelming and Sherlock will not be moved on the subject. Hairy hands and a necessity to sleep in a coffin of clay from your homeland – such ridiculousness!

The box of books arrives the next day while the boys are sleeping. Mrs Hudson takes it in for them and brings it up to 221b, settling it on the kitchen table, still cleared of all experiments. Sherlock's bedroom door is slightly ajar and she peeks in before returning downstairs, to be sure they don't need anything. The sight that greets her makes her smile - Sherlock, face still pale, tucked in against John. Violet will be pleased to hear that all is as well as can be expected. She so worries about them, and especially now.

John wakes first, shortly before dusk. For a long time, he doesn't stir preferring not to accidentally wake Sherlock by untangling himself from around his lover. He just lies there, his fingers gently stroking through Sherlock's hair, smiling sleepily at the miraculous man sleeping against him. By rights, he should have died – if not from the near-drowning then from his injuries. The blood loss should have been enough, never mind the inevitable complications. But instead Sherlock is alive – though the technicalities as regard a pulse would say otherwise – and recovering and should live a long, healthy vampiric life. It makes John want to cry.

If Sherlock wakes and finds him crying it will raise questions. John eases himself from Sherlock's grip and slips out of bed, padding into the kitchen. The box on the table catches his eye, but he leaves it for now. There's no rush on it, and his eyes are burning too much to try to read the titles of the books inside anyway. He takes a bag of blood from the fridge and shakes it to stir the separated contents, pouring some of it into a mug that he puts into the microwave.

It's ridiculous to cry. Sherlock will be all right.

He's just so relieved. And it looked so bad.

Tears drip down his cheeks, but John makes no move to brush them away. So what if he cries? He has every right to. Sherlock is alive. He's alive, and it's wonderful.

* * *

When Sherlock wakes, John insists that he has a full bag of blood before touching any of the books. Such is the anticipation that Sherlock doesn't question the directive though he knows well that in all likelihood the books won't be worth his time.

Having taken the blood and left his bed to stretch the stiffness out of his wounded leg, Sherlock settles himself under the covers once more and John brings him the box of books.

The first book withdrawn from the box is _Twilight_ by one Stephenie Meyer. John snorts when he reads the synopsis.

"A teen romance, Sherlock? Really?"

Sherlock sniffs and grabs the book from his lover's hands. "It is highly popular on Amazon. Thoroughness demands I read it."

"Fine, but you're going to regret it."

"Hm."

Two hours later, John's prediction is borne out. Sherlock hurls the book across the room and before John can stop him he rolls out of bed after it and picks it off the floor, ripping several pages out.

"This is the greatest load of rubbish I have ever had the misfortune to read," he growls upon John asking him what is wrong. "It needs to be burned."

An idea clicks in John's heads and he smiles. "Burned, you say?"

An hour later, they are ready. Sherlock has carefully prepared the fireplace in the living room. He's arranged the logs and lit the fire and brought it to a good heat. John, meanwhile, has prepared some purifying herbs, as recommended by Mrs Hudson, many of them grown in her 221c garden. Rosemary, basil and sage – as grown in Baker Street – with yarrow and juniper of mysterious origins.

They condemn the torn pages of _Twilight_ to the flames first and watch as they curl, edges turning in to face the centre, crisping into black fragile shadows of themselves before crumbling to ash. The cover follows them, taking its turn to melt into nothing. Sherlock and John share a glass of blood like wine and each takes a fistful of the prepared herbs, throwing them to the flames too.

"I feel better already," Sherlock declares, inhaling deep lungfuls of the smoke and smiling as John – sitting beside him on the edge of his armchair – ducks his head and kisses his forehead.

"I'm pleased to hear it. Are you going to continue this research? We might need more herbs."

Sherlock seems to give it some consideration before shaking his head. "It might be safer not to."

Over the ensuing months, Sherlock does, of course, return to the research. It is not in his nature to abandon something with such potential. On days when he can't sleep, bone-weary and blood-sated though he may be, he returns to those impulsive Amazon purchases, with varying results. Anne Rice's _Vampire Chronicles_ proves surprisingly engrossing, while the Cast's _House of Night_ too gets condemned to the flames. The _Vampire Academy_ series, though somewhat in the _Twilight_ vein, proves surprisingly fruitful. ("It may not be wholly accurate and at times is downright ridiculous, but it does present an interesting view of the vampire world and fascinating class divisions," so Sherlock insists upon finishing the series, having been awake for four days reading it.)

But the vampire saga which leaves the greatest impression on Sherlock is that of Darren Shan. A year after undergoing the change, he picks up the first book of twelve. Highly critical at that point ("the writing is very childish and there are far too many exclamation points"), he comes to enjoy it the more he reads ("now _these_ are vampires.") So overwhelming does he find the series, that shortly after beginning the tenth book, he throws it down, abandons the couch and curls up in bed. John, perplexed by the sudden outburst, follows him and gently questions him as to what is wrong. "He's dead," the answer comes, muffled by the pillow though John thinks that he can detect the grogginess of tears. "He's actually dead." (John is Not Amused to discover that a fictional, orange-haired, scarred up vampire – now deceased – came perilously close to replacing him in Sherlock's affections. Not to mention that it shocks him to discover his lover crying over fictional characters. That's his domain.)

After the trauma of the Darren Shan saga, Sherlock swears off reading novels ever again. Though, when a hesitant and somewhat teasing John buys him the prequel saga centred around a certain orange-haired, scarred-up vampire, he relents and devours the four books. The tears and over-indulgence in therapeutic blood provide John with sufficient laughing material to last him centuries.


	2. Meltdown

He's melting. Surely he's melting. That's the only explanation for the way his skin is crawling off him in order to escape the heat. He's melting. What a ridiculous way to go.

Seemingly he voices the thought out loud, because he could swear he hears John chuckling.  
"You're not melting, you fool, it's just the heat."

Something is pressed to his lips, lukewarm and slightly salty. He sips at it without opening his eyes and it cools him as it runs down his throat. Blood. High grade stuff too. "That's it. Drink up."

He cracks his eyes open. The room is dark, white surfaces glistening grey in the low light. And it is John looming over him, concerned and half-smiling.

His throat is groggy, as if he were suffering with a cold, but one of the benefits of vampirism is that such things aren't possible anymore. "Wha-"

John has a hand under his neck, fingers gentle and why is he lying crammed into the bath? "You haven't been drinking enough. The heat got to you and you crawled in here before passing out. So no, you're not actually melting."

Sherlock groans, his head aching, as if it were two streets too wide. That would be the lack of blood. When did he get to be such an idiot that he thought he could melt? "I can't believe I actually said that."

"Oh that wasn't all you said. Apparently, I'm a delicious honey bee, and Mrs Hudson works on dangerous voodoo. I wouldn't say that to her. She could skewer you with a herb chopping knife."

Sherlock tugs his head down and presses their lips together, sliding his tongue in between John's briefly parted lips. "Oh do shut up, honey bee."


	3. Herb Garden Pastime

Such was Martha Hudson's distaste for her basement flat in the early years of her marriage, that upon taking control of 221 Baker Street she converted 221c into a herb garden. So long as she manages the damp and mould - easy to do with particular incantations - it proves a highly fertile environment. She doubts if there is another garden like it in all of England.

Some plants - like garlic and flax - Martha keeps for their healing properties. Others - like basil, thistle and rosemary - she uses for purification. Chamomile and lavender she keeps in order to help Sherlock and John get to sleep on their bad days. Both of them have far too many flashbacks for their own good, poor boys.

Martha loves this quiet garden of hers, spends long hours down here tending her hundreds of different plants, murmuring encouraging words to each of them. The delicate leaves bend into her touch, like cats greeting her after a long day.

They know what is in store for them, these plants. Someday they will be severed under her knife and used in potions, yet they feel the sacrifice is noble and she loves them all the more for it.

Sherlock is forbidden to experiment on the plants, forbidden to associate with them in any way, in fact, except through music. They love his violin playing, seem to sway to it when he sits in Martha's chair and takes bow to string. The haunting, achingly sweet melodies are the ones they love most, shooting out of their pots faster than ever in an attempt to drink in more of that sound. When she remarks about it, Sherlock presents reams of scientific research into the subject of plants and music.

Privately, Martha knows it's because the plants know they'll have to treat him some day.


End file.
